


Flower of Creation

by kototyph



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Authorial Insecurities, Bookworms Unite, Episode s08e21: The Great Escapist, Gen, Mild Bible Bashing, No I Will Not Debate Leviticus With You, Season/Series 08, episode coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 06:18:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kototyph/pseuds/kototyph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein the scribe of God just wants some fucking concrit already.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flower of Creation

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Take all that away, and what's left?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/781941) by [Whit Merule (whit_merule)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whit_merule/pseuds/Whit%20Merule). 



> This began with a bit of, "But where did they stash Kevin???" and ended with a lot of dumb book jokes.

Realistically, Kevin knows that he's safer staying with the Metatron than he would be anywhere else on earth, tagging along with the Winchesters included. Especially tagging along with the Winchesters. Being within a hundred miles of the Winchesters, even, is dangerous— like dancing on the edge of a muttering volcano. A volcano of the apocalypse. Part two. Special edition. Extended directors cut.

He may say some of that out loud, because Sam says, "Catchy, let's make t-shirts," as he's pulling Kevin into a wincing one-armed hug. Unnatural heat bleeds through his shirt and Kevin kind of clings for a second, because he can't help but feel a little responsible for this, for the dark circles under Sam's eyes and the paper-whiteness of his cheeks. Sam gives him a wanly reassuring smile when they separate, reaching out to ruffle his hair.

"Take care of yourself, okay? We'll call if something comes up."

"Hypocrite," Kevin mutters, and Sam's smile shades towards rueful.

Dean steps in, and he goes for the whole monty, both arms, Kevin crushed to him with his head tucked in under Dean's chin, hearty backslaps and a gruff, "Watch out for yourself, kid. Dude might be the Metatron but if he gives you any trouble I want to hear about it, got it?"

"Got it," Kevin says into his chest, and endures a few more backslaps before Dean lets him go.

He knows it's safer here. Still, watching the two of them go on without him, _again_ , leaves a sullen, bitter taste in his mouth, and he scowls after the Impala for a long time as it winds down the side of the mountain.

The Metatron, who's been standing a little apart, closer to the hotel doors, clears his throat more loudly than necessary.

Kevin turns, feeling grungy and sore and stupidly tired. "… hi. My name's Kevin Tran?"

"Kevin, yes," the angel says. He rocks forward on his heels almost nervously, looking like any other grizzled old dude in a ratty sweater. "Well, ah. Welcome!"

"Thanks," Kevin says. " _Where_ exactly are we?"

Colorado, apparently, and on a Native American reservation to boot. The Metatron seems strangely anxious, ushering Kevin through the doors, down the dim hallways and into the empty dining room, the entire back wall a panoramic spread of windows looking out onto the valley as the sun sets. It's gorgeous. The light hurts Kevin's eyes.

"The hotel has a restaurant. Ostensibly. I don't eat, you see, and no one else comes here," the Metatron says apologetically, actually pulling out Kevin's chair for him, and Kevin watches with fuzzy-edged confusion as the angel darts around, getting glasses and flapping his hands at his man Tonto to get them food of some kind.

The few bites of barbeque he'd managed before Crowley's big entrance are sitting in his stomach like lead, but Kevin tries to enjoy the vegetarian lasagna that eventually does make it to the table anyway. It's warm, at least, and filling.

The sun dies a gory red death on the jagged peaks of the mountains outside. Across from Kevin, the Metatron sits and watches him eat, hands folded on the table. His stare is direct and somehow expectant, like he's anticipating some sort of reaction or question. Kevin can't think of anything, though, and his brain feels strained to the breaking point as it is, so he focuses on his soggy vegetables and limp pasta sheets and tries to ignore the gaze boring holes in his head.

"Did you like them?" the Metatron says suddenly, just as Kevin's lifted his glass to take a drink.

Kevin chokes, coughs up tepid tap water and manages, "Uh, what?"

"They're hardly great works of literature, I know," the Metatron says, leaning forward slightly, intensely earnest. "More like instruction manuals than anything that's going to make the New York Times Bestseller List— especially these days, I have _never_ understood how that E. L. James woman managed to sell anyone so much as an inkblot—"

"What are you talking about," Kevin says, flatly.

"The _tablets,_ prophet, _"_ the angel says eagerly. "What did you think of them? When I was composing them, you know, the best stories were still preserved only in cuneiform, on papyrus— I didn't have a lot of material to draw from, at that time. Language was barely a few thousand years old! When I think of how, if I were writing now, I could have used the analytic skills of Kafka, or the language of Faulkner—"

"What," Kevin tries again.

"Or the beautiful succinctness of Stein," the Metatron continues, eyes shining with fervor. "The stories of mankind really are the flower of creation. I've filled this entire hotel, almost every room full of books and recordings of every kind, everything from Silamaka to My Little Pony, and I still have barely touched the wells of human imagination!"

Kevin just looks at him, too tired to sort out the knotted threads of their conversation.

"Back to the tablets," the Metatron says with an embarrassed little cough. "I'd appreciate— Well. You must understand, they're really my only works."

"Only…?" Exhaustion drags on him, weighs at his thoughts and his eyelids as he slowly blinks. "Wait, what about the Torah? Or the Bible? You didn't—?"

"Wonderful book, the Bible," the Metatron says. "Absolutely one of my favorites. I had nothing to do with it."

Kevin squints at him. "Aren't you the Voice of God, or something? Pretty sure you're in there."

"Well, of course I'm 'in there'," the angel says impatiently. "I spoke to humanity quite frequently, in the beginning. But I didn't _write_ it. Humans did. Prophets, like you, yes, and ordinary folk too. Rabbis, scribes, kings. But no angels, and certainly not _God_. Who cares if humanity goes around wearing garments made of two kinds of material? No one. Still, lovely book. I have three rooms dedicated to its translations, I'll show you later."

He inches forward, eyes fixed on Kevin's. "But the _tablets,_ those, I had full authority over. I made them with my own hands, at my Father's instruction, yes, but with my own _words_. All, you could say, for a readership of one. One at a time, at least. And you," he looks at Kevin keenly now, almost pleadingly, " _you_ , prophet, are the first being to ever read them. Apart from myself and God."

He's about to pass out, and the Voice of God wants a fucking _book report_. "Um," Kevin says, slumping further into his seat. "I've only read the demon tablet. And it was in pieces."

"Oh," the Metatron says, deflating a bit. "I see. Hardly optimal reading conditions."

"But," Kevin starts, and crap, thinking is so, so hard right now, "I thought your use of—of hyperbole was really effective. In. In communicating the seriousness of your message."

The Metatron _beams_. "Really?"

"Yeah," Kevin says firmly. "That whole— spine through your mouth for all eternity thing. That was good. Good wording."

"I always thought so," the angel says in a rush, looking enormously pleased. "And what about the—"

Kevin escapes, eventually, by almost fainting at the table, and a remorseful Metatron leads him to a room with a dusty bedspread and a floor given way entirely to moldering stacks of Little House on the Prairie.

"I hope you'll be comfortable," he says, "and we'll talk more in the morning, yes?"

Kevin collapses facedown on the mattress with a grunt.

"I'll transcribe the other tablets so you can read them as well," the Metatron says happily, and closes the door behind himself.

Kevin cracks an eye at that. He thinks very, very briefly about texting Sam and Dean that he might be able to get them the text of the angel tablet.

Or he could pass out for real.

Unsurprisingly, sleep wins.

**Author's Note:**

> The Metatron is us and we are the Metatron. It's all so... _meta_.
> 
> I need more fandom friends! Find me on [tumblr](http://kototyph.tumblr.com/) and [livejournal](http://kototyph.livejournal.com/).


End file.
